


Dancing in the Devil's shoes

by MarieRuby



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: 2x11, 2x12, Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Depression, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 19:57:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11111745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarieRuby/pseuds/MarieRuby
Summary: His legs are not working. No matter how much he tries, the swirling mess in his head makes it impossible to walk anywhere, take any action. It’s the last couple of days all over again. He wants to cry but the tears are dry. He wants to scream but his voice is gone.His voice is gone.-------The aftermath of 2x11 and the consequences of the bodyswap for Magnus.





	Dancing in the Devil's shoes

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the warnings

 

After it was done, after it was over, the demon was back in hell, the evil was back in a cage, Magnus was still trapped. Inside himself, inside his brain crawling and trying to break free, the panic muttering and whispering in his ear. _Get out, get out, get out._ His hands scratching his skin, trying to break himself from the prison of his body. His magic making his heart beat at an impossible rate, desperation to to let his soul out.

 

The darkness his father gave him, the title he discarded and kept buried under all the clothes, makeup and drinks. All the lovely works, kisses and caresses that made him believe he was more, more than just a lost spirit, born of chaos and darkness. Nothing mattered. Not now, possibly never. He had _nothing._

 

The beast wanted to break free, to find the nurturing arms of its progenitor, to scorch the earth and make it His again. To forget how he was made prisoner, victim of his own stupidity, victim of love and hope, _stupid_ hope that made him believe for a second he was something else.

_Prince of hell, I want to break free._

 

It would be so easy. To leave without goodbye, to burn to ashes what is left, to regret it  in thousand  years and cry when there’s no one else to mourn; To fall to his knees, to say forgive me father because I have sinned, i thought i could have it. I lied, fooled myself, lived in denial, take me back.  He wanted to be His heir, give in to the power  so it never happens again. Release from mundane things that kept  him grounded, make him fly even tho he’s not an angel.

 

Magnus Bane, High Warlock of Brooklyn, Prince of Hell. Lover, friend, companion, enemy, father, brother and son.

 

Warlock, half-breed, creature, monster,evil spirit, weak, proud, anguished, pained. The lines were blurring, the claims disappearing, his identity blending with the floor trying to keep him from descending down bellow, to where he belongs.

 

Taking a deep breath and squeezing his eyes shut, he tries to stand up. To end something, one must think of the beginning. To find absolution, he must go the same way he came to be. To fill his lungs with water, feel his skin crack and go _home_. So many centuries he persisted, it feels foolish to terminate it like this, after a trivial men taking over his body. However, his mind can’t make decisions anymore. Everything is about survival instinct, like a cornered predator being hunted on his own territory. The magic has the upper hand now, body over mind, soul over brain, impulse over sanity. The will to protect is bigger than the will to stay.

 

His legs are not working. No matter how much he tries, the swirling mess in his head makes it impossible to walk anywhere, take any action. It’s the last couple of days all over again. He wants to cry but the tears are dry. He wants to scream but his voice is gone. _His voice is gone._

 

Maybe he’ll calcify like this, while the world keeps spinning and time keeps passing. He can’t imagine a way to stand once again, with his head up and his magic down, to endure the pain he has been feeling for the last centuries.

 

There’s a noise. A change in the air, so small that he only knows it’s there because he’s connected to every molecule around him. Steps, getting closer. Breaths, getting louder.

 

“Magnus?” _Yes_ , he wants to answer. _It’s me, i’m here_. Except he isn’t. A hand touches his face, brushes his closed eyes,curls on his jaw. The tenderness is almost enough to make the little stupid, stupid spark of hope come alive again (it remains dead).

 

“Open your eyes, _please._ ”. He can’t. He wants to keep living in the darkness, where the light can’t touch him. He keeps breathing because he doesn't know how to stop.

 

“Okay, ok, it’s ok. You don’t have to.” The voice is breaking, wavering under the pressure, like there’s something weighing it down. Lips press down his forehead, murmuring “I’m sorry” over and over again. He feels like in any other day that would bring tears to his eyes. Right now, it barely makes his heart skip a beat.

 

Should I stay or Should I go?

 

The words play on his mind, and he tries to ponder what to do next. There are arms around him now, propping him up, carrying across the room and putting him down. It seems like the choice was made for him, like always. Perhaps this is his burden, to never, ever, be free.

 

“I don’t know if you can listen, but Magnus… I’m here. I’m always going to be here.” He knows the voice has a name, the promise has a meaning, that how many times has he heard this before? Why should it matter, why should it make a difference?

 

“I love you.”

 

Oh _love_. What gotten him here in the first place. He remembers all those years ago, a woman holding him back, red lips and sharps nails, grabbing him so he didn’t take the final leap. Would it be enough now?  Could calloused hands strong to kill, be suitable to keep him alive?

 

There’s a hand holding his, squeezing and caressing. There’s the wind coming through the window grazing his skin, shadows flickering behind his eyelids. The weight of his own body, the smell of his house, the memory of his life, playing like a noir film.

There’s his magic, loud and soaring, begging for an escape.

And there’s a small calm pressure, right in the middle of his body, keeping him grounded.

 

Perhaps he’ll go, someday, towards the freedom his soul begs for. But tonight, he decides, he’ll stay.

 

The cage is strong enough for another day.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> It's canon that Magnus was suicidal and has/had depression. This is my take on the emotional toll that the whole situation with Valentine has on Magnus. 
> 
> Follow me on tumblr: marieruby.tumblr.com 
> 
> xx.


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